(A/N: Hey everyone! I wrote something a bit different from what I usually write. This one doesn't include very explicit details and I still tried to make it as poetic as possible so I dunno how the attempt to write something a bit mature went. Tell me what you think! xx)
The night deepens and the wind howls.
The coldness swept over Baker Street, only the crackling fire breaking the deafening silence inside Sherlock's flat.
He lay motionless on the couch, his eyes closed, his heart pounding. There is something about these moments that kills him—-a slow but definite death. These are the nights when he is visited by thoughts that he never imagined he would have.
He hated himself for being reminded of Irene Adler.
Memories of her meant endless torture. She is the one person he couldn't help but wrap his mind around, that beautiful face of hers matched with that brilliant mind. She was extraordinary. And he hated what she made him feel.
He remembers the way she leaned near him, the way her pulse elevated at their proximity. There was something about that moment that made his insides twist, the knowledge that she fancied him made him feel vulnerable and utterly conflicted. It's a good thing she didn't notice, he thought to himself.
When he broke the puzzle, her passcode, there was an air of pride that remained in him. He kept on convincing himself that it was because of him outsmarting her and yet, that small voice in his head tells him otherwise. He is pleased to know that he was that 'key' to her 'heart'. He made sure he pointed that out.
And then there's Karachi. The hitching of their breaths as they ran together, escaping not just the terrorists but probably the rest of the world on that exact moment. Their lips brushed for only a fraction of a moment, a sign of going their separate ways, and yet he was annoyed to feel that it was just a beginning of future meetings.
Her messages are still on his phone, a reminder that she is real and not a figment of his imagination. He hated to admit it but he knows deep inside that he yearns to see her again.
***
Weeks and months had passed and the sun grew brighter, the winds tamed. Sherlock busied himself with cases to get him tired enough to not dream in the evenings… And yet he still finds himself sleepless and alone with his thoughts about Irene Adler.
One day, Mrs. Hudson told him that he has a visitor.
"I told you to send my clients up." he said, rather annoyed, not looking up from his microscope. To his surprise, the landlady hit him slightly.
"She said she's not a client. She's bleeding Sherlock, for goodness sake!" Mrs. Hudson replied, exasperated.
She? He shook this head. Mrs. Hudson couldn't mean…
He walked past his landlady, his head buzzing, knowing exactly who will greet him on the doorstep. Reaching impatiently for the knob, he found himself breathless in front of Irene Adler.
Her hair is made like that way they first met, only that there were some loose curls falling over her shoulder. Her black dress is ripped slightly by the hem and sleeve, cuts evident on her cheek and arms.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes." she greeted with a smug smile. "Care to let me in?"
He opened the doorway wider for her and she slipped in next to him. Mrs. Hudson saw them by the stairs and she shrugged at the sight of Sherlock's unreadable expression and Irene's smile.
"What happened to you?" he grumbled, eyeing her intently. She is on the run, he can tell, but from who and why, he couldn't deduce. Instead of answering, Irene went up the stairs and headed for his flat.
Sighing, he followed her.
He sees her sitting on his chair when he reached the door, her smile tugging his heart softly. He dismissed the thought.
"I won't stay long. Just needed a place to stay for the night to… cure myself. I won't be much of a bother, dear, no need to worry." She implored, eyeing his expression.
To Irene, this place is a safe haven whenever she is in London. There is an unspoken testament that she shares with Sherlock, that somehow, if she finds herself lost or in need, 221B will always be open to her.
Sherlock has proved himself able to protect her numerous times and it welled her heart. He isn't like her clients, not like anyone she's ever met before, and maybe that is the reason she was smitten by him. Both of them shares a connection not out of lust but rather a battle of the minds in which she found enticing. He is a gorgeous man, yes, but he is also more than just a genius—-he is one of a kind.
They are staring at each other, both in deep thought about this reunion. At that moment, their thoughts are in unison—-they both may not be the best people to define love and yet, when given the situation, they would probably define it as the feeling they have when they are together.
The detective just nodded at Irene upon hearing what she said. He walked over his bedroom and took out a first aid kit, gripping the box tight as if he held on it for dear life. She is here and he is trembling deep down.
As she waited for Sherlock to pop out of the bedroom, Irene found herself nervous. He seems like the same Sherlock Holmes she parted ways from when they were in Karachi and yet there is something in the way he looked at her just now that she can't wrap her head on. He seems annoyed, scared and pleased at the same time. And yet she forced herself not to make assumptions. This is Sherlock after all.
He walks out of the room and their eyes meet again, like magnets finding their opposite pole. He tries to read her expression, but she is as unreadable as him. As soon as he reached her, she tried to get the kit from his hands but he shook his head. He finds his body moving differently from the restraints his mind his giving. Kneeling in front of her, he caressed her cheek slightly, his finger brushing over the wound. He studied her arms as well, which is filled with cuts and bruises. Whoever did this to her ignited a flame inside of him that his other hand is clenched to his side, his knuckles almost white.
Trembling, he took out a cotton ball and povidone-iodine and started dabbing it on the cuts. Irene starts to flinch at every dab and yet, both of them remained silent.
Irene could feel her heart pounding as she watched Sherlock tend to her. There is something in his eyes that shifted when he saw her wounds, that for a flicker of a moment, she thought the look was almost murderous. He looked gentle now, placed band-aids over her cuts, the slight touch of his fingers sends heat to her entire body.
"What happened to you?" he asked again, his tone grave. He just finished covering her wounds, her skin warm to his touch, his thoughts clouded by how these cuts, her battle scars, made her more beautiful in his eyes. She is strong and smart and he wants to tell her that the time they were apart almost ripped him to shreds. He mustered all of his self-control and just looked at her intently, waiting for her to explain.
"Just a run in with an old client. I'm supposed to be dead and yet he saw me in New York a few months back, somehow blaming me for his ended marriage. He chased me all the way back here to London." Irene explained, rolling her eyes at how pathetic the situation is.
"And he hurt you?" Sherlock reckoned, his clenched fist trembling so hard that Irene took notice.
"I managed to escape before he and his men did permanent damage." Irene replied, giving Sherlock a reassuring look.
Sherlock remained silent. It isn't about whether there is permanent damage or not, but rather, it is about Irene getting hurt. He stood up and is heading towards the door, when Irene called him back.
"Where are you going?"
"None of your business, Ms. Adler." he hissed, slipping onto his coat and yet Irene stood up and held him by the arm.
"You're not actually thinking of going after them! I would be the one to get into trouble for that! I am supposed to be dead!"
Sherlock sighed, knowing that she is right. If he caused trouble, there are more chances that Irene will be traced back to his flat and her presence be ever made known again. His shoulders relaxed and Irene let go of him.
At that moment, Sherlock tried to stop himself but enough was enough. As soon as Irene turned her back to him to head back to the chair, he took one big step after her and swooped in to plant his lips to hers.
Irene found herself stunned. The detective held her tight, his hands sliding from her shoulders to her hands, his lips arduously moving against her own. Her heart pounded as if trying to escape from her ribs as she kissed him back with the same fierceness, taking advantage of whatever force that made Sherlock kiss her this way.
Sherlock's hands slid to her hair, releasing her curls from the pins, falling over her shoulders like a black waterfall. She held onto him for support, her hands finding their way to his lean and strong arms. He pressed her against the wall, their lips never leaving each other, their kisses growing hungrier and hungrier.
There were disturbing thoughts inside Sherlock's mind at the time, all of them somehow about insecurity. He knows nothing of these kinds of actions and he just let his feelings take over. He is afraid that he would embarrass himself in front of her, that this is not the kind of things she was accustomed to, and yet he was too intoxicated to stop. The way she touches him and the way her lips responds to his made all the worries slip away. All he felt at that moment was the burning in his heart and Irene Adler.
Irene, on the other hand, felt all her defences crumble. People might think that just because she is a dominatrix, situations like these is almost nothing to her. But Sherlock is different and that made her feel different too. This is something she isn't used to. The passion and the love is alien to her and she found herself acting like a blind man. She lost herself completely to him.
Sherlock traced kisses to Irene's neck, hearing a moan escape her lips. He smiled to himself, reminded of the time he hears her moan as a sign of a text message. Her fingers gripped his messed up curls, her head leaned back inviting him to kiss her neck some more. He slid one hand to her waist and the other to her thigh and he lifted her, taking her to his bedroom, their lips finding each other once again.
He laid her to the bed, both of them gasping for air. He looked down on her, his desire reflected on her eyes. His fingers traced the band aids on her arms and he rolled beside her, shaking his head. Irene leaned on his chest with questioning eyes.
"What's the matter?" she whispered.
"You're injured." he replied, not meeting her eyes.
Irene laughed softly, nuzzling his neck. "Even if my bones are all broken, I'd still want you."
Sherlock kissed the top of her head. "And why is that?"
Irene looked up at him. "Because I love you. There. I said it. As if you don't know it already. You know everything."
Sherlock found himself grinning. "Not everything. That's Mycroft."
Irene rolled her eyes, her fingers circling Sherlock's shirt buttons. She unclasped one to the next, feeling Sherlock's breathing hitch with her every touch. Irene can feel herself trembling. She is grateful for this moment, she realised, that for the first time, she will do it with someone she actually loved.
She loomed over Sherlock and he sat down in front of her to shuck off his shirt. He then leaned onto her for another kiss, his fingers rolling down the zipper on the back of her dress. She felt the fabric roll off her shoulders, which is now bare to the detective's touch. She pushed him down the bed and stripped the dress off entirely. Her hands wandered to the detective's trousers and she pulled them off him, both of them now left in only their underwear.
Their lips crushed against each other once more as they strip each other naked, passionately feeling each other's skin. They were gasping and moaning as the kisses grew wilder and the touches lingered fiercer, both of them feeling every inch of each other. As they became one, Irene felt like Sherlock was the first man she has ever done this with, the sensation all new to her, the whole situation foreign and magical. Sherlock watched Irene looking more and more beautiful in his eyes as she started to become undone beneath him. At the moment of their release, their thoughts and their emotions were one, all intelligence and wit, power and beauty and something much more than love was unraveled.
They both rolled to their sides, looking at each other's eyes, both tangled in an embrace, a smile playing on their lips.
"If I'd known you miss me this much, I could've came earlier." Irene teased, her head resting on Sherlock's bare chest.
Sherlock smiled. "I would still have control by then and this never would've happened."
"I'm not so sure." Irene replied, laughing.
"I apologise if I was inadequate. I know that this is subtler than what you…"
Irene cut him off with a kiss. "It's perfect. You're perfect so shut up. You're ruining the moment."
Sherlock stared at her, thinking how lucky he was to have met her. "Irene?"
The Woman smiled wider upon hearing him say her name. "Yes?"
"I love you too." Sherlock whispered, making Irene's heart flutter.
And with that, they felt each other drift into the land of dreams, both smiling in each others arms.